Delphi Complete Works of Sheridan Le Fanu

by J. Sheridan le Fanu

‘No, Master Stanley! She’s a good little girl.’

  ‘She quite believes her mistress is up stairs, eh?’

  ‘Yes; the Lord forgive me — I’m deceiving her.’

  He did not like the tone and look which accompanied this.

  ‘Now, my good old Tamar, you really can’t be such an idiot as to fancy there can be any imaginable wrong in keeping that prying little slut in ignorance of that which in no wise concerns her. This is a critical matter, do you see, and if it were known in this place that your young mistress had gone away as she has done — though quite innocently — upon my honour — I think it would blast her. You would not like, for a stupid crotchet, to ruin poor Radie, I fancy.’

  ‘I’m doing just what you both bid me,’ said the old woman.

  ‘You sit up stairs chiefly?’

  She nodded sadly.

  ‘And keep the hall door shut and bolted?’

  Again she nodded.

  ‘I’m going up to the Hall, and I’ll tell them she’s much better, and that I’ve been in her room, and that, perhaps, she may go up to see them in the morning.’

  Old Tamar shook her head and groaned.

  ‘How long is all this to go on for, Master Stanley?’

  ‘Why, d — you, Tamar, can’t you listen?’ he said, clutching her wrist in his lavender kid grasp rather roughly. ‘How long — a very short time, I tell you. She’ll be home immediately. I’ll come tomorrow and tell you exactly — maybe tomorrow evening — will that do? And should they call, you must say the same; and if Miss Dorcas, Miss Brandon, you know — should wish to go up to see her, tell her she’s asleep. Stop that hypocritical grimacing, will you. It is no part of your duty to tell the world what can’t possibly concern them, and may bring your young mistress to — perdition. That does not strike me as any part of your religion.’

  Tamar groaned again, and she said: ‘I opened my Bible, Lord help me, three times to-day, Master Stanley, and could not go on. It’s no use — I can’t read it.’

  ‘Time enough — I think you’ve read more than is good for you. I think you are half mad, Tamar; but think what you may, it must be done. Have not you read of straining at gnats and swallowing camels? You used not, I’ve heard, to be always so scrupulous, old Tamar.’

  There was a vile sarcasm in his tone and look.

  ‘It is not for the child I nursed to say that,’ said Tamar.

  There were scandalous stories of wicked old Tiberius — bankrupt, dead, and buried — compromising the fame of Tamar — not always a spectacled and cadaverous student of Holy Writ. These, indeed, were even in Stanley’s childhood old-world, hazy, traditions of the servants’ hall. But boys hear often more than is good, and more than gospel, who live in such houses as old General Lake, the old millionaire widower, kept.

  ‘I did not mean anything, upon my honour, Tamar, that could annoy you. I only meant you used not to be a fool, and pray don’t begin now; for I assure you Radie and I would not ask it if it could be avoided. You have Miss Radie’s secret in your hands, I don’t think you’d like to injure her, and you used to be trustworthy. I don’t think your Bible teaches you anywhere to hurt your neighbour and to break faith.’

  ‘Don’t speak of the Bible now; but you needn’t fear me, Master Stanley,’ answered the old woman, a little sternly. ‘I don’t know why she’s gone, nor why it’s a secret — I don’t, and I’d rather not. Poor Miss Radie, she never heard anything but what was good from old Tamar, whatever I might ha’ bin myself, miserable sinners are we all; and I’ll do as you bid me, and I have done, Master Stanley, howsoever it troubles my mind;’ and now old Tamar’s words spoke — that’s all.

  ‘Old Tamar is a sensible creature, as she always was. I hope I did not vex you, Tamar. I did not mean, I assure you; but we get rough ways in the army, I’m afraid, and you won’t mind me. You never did mind little Stannie when he was naughty, you know.’

  There was here a little subsidence in his speech. He was thinking of giving her a crown, but there were several reasons against it, so that handsome coin remained in his purse.

  ‘And I forgot to tell you, Tamar, I’ve a ring for you in town — a little souvenir; you’ll think it pretty — a gold ring, with a stone in it — it belonged to poor dear Aunt Jemima, you remember. I left it behind; so stupid!’

  So he shook hands with old Tamar, and patted her affectionately on the shoulder, and he said: —

  ‘Keep the hall-door bolted. Make any excuse you like: only it would not do for anyone to open it, and run up to the room as they might, so don’t forget to secure the door when I go. I think that is all. Ta-ta, dear Tamar. I’ll see you in the morning.’

  As he walked down the mill-road toward the town, he met Lord Chelford on his way to make enquiry about Rachel at Redman’s Farm; and Lake, who, as we know, had just seen his sister, gave him all particulars.

  Chelford, like the lawyer, had heard from Mark Wylder that morning — a few lines, postponing his return. He merely mentioned it, and made no comment; but Lake perceived that he was annoyed at his unexplained absence.

  Lake dined at Brandon that evening, and though looking ill, was very good company, and promised to bring an early report of Rachel’s convalescence in the morning.

  I have little to record of next day, except that Larkin received another

  London letter. Wylder plainly wrote in great haste, and merely said: —

  ‘I shall have to wait a day or two longer than I yesterday thought, to meet a fellow from whom I am to receive something of importance, rather, as I think, to me. Get the deeds ready, as I said in my last. If I am not in Gylingden by Monday, we must put off the wedding for a week later — there is no help for it. You need not talk of this. I write to Chelford to say the same.’

  This note was as unceremonious, and still shorter. Lord Chelford would have written at once to remonstrate with Mark on the unseemliness of putting off his marriage so capriciously, or, at all events, so mysteriously — Miss Brandon not being considered, nor her friends consulted. But Mark had a decided objection to many letters: he had no fancy to be worried, when he had made up his mind, by prosy remonstrances; and he shut out the whole tribe of letter-writers by simply omitting to give them his address.

  His cool impertinence, and especially this cunning precaution, incensed old Lady Chelford. She would have liked to write him one of those terse, courteous, biting notes, for which she was famous; and her fingers, morally, tingled to box his ears. But what was to be done with mere ‘London?’ Wylder was hidden from mortal sight, like a heaven-protected hero in the ‘Iliad,’ and a cloud of invisibility girdled him.

  Like most rustic communities, Gylingden and its neighbourhood were early in bed. Few lights burned after halfpast ten, and the whole vicinity was deep in its slumbers before twelve o’clock.

  At that dread hour, Captain Lake, about a mile on the Dollington, which was the old London road from Gylingden, was pacing backward and forward under the towering files of beech that overarch it at that point.

  The ‘White House’ public, with a wide panel over its door, presenting, in tints subdued by time, a stagecoach and four horses in mid career, lay a few hundred yards nearer to Gylingden. Not a soul was stirring — not a sound but those, sad and soothing, of nature was to be heard.

  Stanley Lake did not like waiting any more than did Louis XIV. He was really a little tired of acting sentry, and was very peevish by the time the ring of wheels and horse-hoofs approaching from the London direction became audible. Even so, he had a longer wait than he expected, sounds are heard so far by night. At last, however, it drew nearer — nearer — quite close — and a sort of nondescript vehicle — one horsed — loomed in the dark, and he calls —

  ‘Hallo! there — I say — a passenger for the “White House?”’

  At the same moment, a window of the cab — shall we call it — was let down, and a female voice — Rachel Lake’s — called to the driver to stop.

  Lake addressed the driver — />
  ‘You come from Johnson’s Hotel — don’t you — at Dollington?’

  ‘Yes, Sir.’

  ‘Well, I’ll pay you half-fare to bring me there.’

  ‘All right, Sir. But the ‘oss, Sir, must ‘av ‘is oats fust.’

  ‘Feed him here, then. They are all asleep in the “White House.” I’ll be with you in five minutes, and you shall have something for yourself when we get into Dollington.’

  Stanley opened the door. She placed her hand on his, and stepped to the ground. It was very dark under those great trees. He held her hand a little harder than was his wont.

  ‘All quite well, ever since. You are not very tired, are you? I’m afraid it will be necessary for you to walk to “Redman’s Farm,” dear Radie — but it is hardly a mile, I think — for, you see, the fellow must not know who you are; and I must go back with him, for I have not been very well — indeed I’ve been, I may say, very ill — and I told that fellow, Larkin, who has his eyes about him, and would wonder what kept me out so late, that I would run down to some of the places near for a change, and sleep a night there; and that’s the reason, dear Radie, I can walk only a short way with you; but you are not afraid to walk a part of the way home without me? You are so sensible, and you have been, really, so very kind, I assure you I appreciate it, Radie — I do, indeed; and I’m very grateful — I am, upon my word.’

  Rachel answered with a heavy sigh.

  CHAPTER XXIII.

  HOW RACHEL SLEPT THAT NIGHT IN REDMAN’S FARM.

  ‘Allow me — pray do,’ and he took her little bag from her hand. ‘I hope you are not very tired, darling; you’ve been so very good; and you’re not afraid — you know the place is so quiet — of the little walk by yourself. Take my arm; I’ll go as far as I can, but it is very late you know — and you are sure you are not afraid?’

  ‘I ought to be afraid of nothing now, Stanley, but I think I am afraid of everything.’

  ‘Merely a little nervous — it’s nothing — I’ve been wretchedly since, myself; but, I’m so glad you are home again; you shall have no more trouble, I assure you; and not a creature suspects you have been from home. Old Tamar has behaved admirably.’

  Rachel sighed again and said —

  ‘Yes — poor Tamar.’

  ‘And now, dear, I’m afraid I must leave you — I’m very sorry; but you see how it is; keep to the shady side, close by the hedge, where the trees stop; but I’m certain you will meet no one. Tamar will tell you who has called — hardly anyone — I saw them myself every day at Brandon, and told them you were ill. You’ve been very kind, Radie; I assure you I’ll never forget it. You’ll find Tamar up and watching for you — I arranged all that; and I need not say you’ll be very careful not to let that girl of yours hear anything. You’ll be very quiet — she suspects nothing; and I assure you, so far as personal annoyance of any kind is concerned, you may be perfectly at ease. Goodnight, Radie; God bless you, dear. I wish very much I could see you all the way, but there’s a risk in it, you know. Goodnight, dear Radie. By-the-bye, here’s your bag; I’ll take the rug, it’s too heavy for you, and I may as well have it to Dollington.’

  He kissed her cheek in his slight way, and left her, and was soon on his way to Dollington, where he slept that night — rather more comfortably than he had done since Rachel’s departure.

  Rachel walked on swiftly. Very tired, but not at all sleepy — on the contrary, excited and nervous, and rather relieved, notwithstanding that Stanley had left her to walk home alone.

  It seemed to her that more than a month had passed since she saw the mill-road last. How much had happened! how awful was the change! Familiar objects glided past her, the same, yet the fashion of the countenance was altered; there was something estranged and threatening.

  The pretty parsonage was now close by: in the dews of night the spirit of peace and slumbers smiled over it; but the sight of its steep roof and homely chimney-stacks smote with a shock at her brain and heart — a troubled moan escaped her. She looked up with the instinct of prayer, and clasped her hands on the handle of that little bag which had made the mysterious journey with her; a load which no man could lift lay upon her heart.

  Then she commenced her dark walk up the mill-road — her hands still clasped, her lips moving in broken appeals to Heaven. She looked neither to the right nor to the left, but passed on with inflexible gaze and hasty steps, like one who crosses a plank over some awful chasm.

  In such darkness Redman’s dell was a solemn, not to say an awful, spot; and at any time, I think, Rachel, in a like solitude and darkness, would have been glad to see the red glimmer of old Tamar’s candle proclaiming under the branches the neighbourhood of human life and sympathy.

  The old woman, with her shawl over her head, sat listening for her young mistress’s approach, on the little side bench in the trellised porch, and tottered hastily forth to meet her at the garden wicket, whispering forlorn welcomes, and thanksgivings, which Rachel answered only with a kiss.

  Safe, safe at home! Thank Heaven at least for that. Secluded once more — hidden in Redman’s Dell; but never again to be the same — the careless mind no more. The summer sunshine through the trees, the leafy songs of birds, obscured in the smoke and drowned in the discord of an untold and everlasting trouble.

  The hall-door was now shut and bolted. Wise old Tamar had turned the key upon the sleeping girl. There was nothing to be feared from prying eyes and listening ears.

  ‘You are cold, Miss Radie, and tired — poor thing! I lit a bit of fire in your room, Miss; would you like me to go up stairs with you, Miss?’

  ‘Come.’

  And so up stairs they went; and the young lady looked round with a strange anxiety, like a person seeking for something, and forgetting what; and, sitting down, she leaned her head on her hand with a moan, the living picture of despair.

  ‘You’ve a headache, Miss Radie?’ said the old woman, standing by her with that painful enquiry which sat naturally on her face.

  ‘A heartache, Tamar.’

  ‘Let me help you off with these things, Miss Radie, dear.’

  The young lady did not seem to hear, but she allowed Tamar to remove her cloak and hat and handkerchief.

  The old servant had placed the teathings on the table, and what remained of that wine of which Stanley had partaken on the night from which the eclipse of Rachel’s life dated. So, without troubling her with questions, she made tea, and then some negus, with careful and trembling hands.

  ‘No,’ said Rachel, a little pettishly, and put it aside.

  ‘See now, Miss Radie, dear. You look awful sick and tired. You are tired to death and pale, and sorry, my dear child; and to please old Tamar, you’ll just drink this.’

  ‘Thank you, Tamar, I believe you are right.’

  The truth was she needed it; and in the same dejected way she sipped it slowly; and then there was a long silence — the silence of a fatigue, like that of fever, near which sleep refuses to come. But she sat in that waking lethargy in which are sluggish dreams of horror, and neither eyes nor ears for that which is before us.

  When at last with another great sigh she lifted her head, her eyes rested on old Tamar’s face, at the other side of the fireplace, with a dark, dull surprise and puzzle for a moment, as if she could not tell why she was there, or where the place was; and then rising up, with piteous look in her old nurse’s face, she said, ‘Oh! Tamar, Tamar. It is a dreadful world.’

  ‘So it is, Miss Radie,’ answered the old woman, her glittering eyes returning her sad gaze wofully. ‘Aye, so it is, sure! — and such it was and will be. For so the Scripture says— “Cursed is the ground for thy sake” — hard to the body — a vale of tears — dark to the spirit. But it is the hand of God that is upon you, and, like me, you will say at last, “It is good for me that I have been in trouble.” Lie down, dear Miss Radie, and I’ll read to you the blessed words of comfort that have been sealed for me ever since I saw you last. They have — but t
hat’s over.’

  And she turned up her pallid, puckered face, and, with a trembling and knotted pair of hands uplifted, she muttered an awful thanksgiving.

  Rachel said nothing, but her eyes rested on the floor, and, with the quiet obedience of her early childhood, she did as Tamar said. And the old woman assisted her to undress, and so she lay down with a sigh in her bed. And Tamar, her round spectacles by this time on her nose, sitting at the little table by her pillow, read, in a solemn and somewhat quavering voice, such comfortable passages as came first to memory.

  Rachel cried quietly as she listened, and at last, worn out by many feverish nights, and the fatigues of her journey, she fell into a disturbed slumber, with many startings and sudden wakings, with cries and strange excitement.

  Old Tamar would not leave her, but kept her seat in the high-backed armchair throughout the night, like a nurse — as indeed she was — in a sick chamber. And so that weary night limped tediously away, and morning dawned, and tipped the discoloured foliage of the glen with its glow, awaking the songs of all the birds, and dispersing the white mists of darkness. And Rachel with a start awoke, and sat up with a wild look and a cry —

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Nothing, dear Miss Radie — only poor old Tamar.’ And a new day had begun.

  CHAPTER XXIV.

  DORCAS BRANDON PAYS RACHEL A VISIT.

  It was not very much past eleven that morning when the pony carriage from

  Brandon drew up before the little garden wicket of Redman’s Farm.

  The servant held the ponies’ heads, and Miss Dorcas passed through the little garden, and met old Tamar in the porch.

  ‘Better to-day, Tamar?’ enquired this grand and beautiful young lady.

  The sun glimmered through the boughs behind her; her face was in shade, and its delicate chiselling was brought out in soft reflected lights; and old Tamar looked on her in a sort of wonder, her beauty seemed so celestial and splendid.